


You can free the world, you can free my mind

by winged_mammal



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, F/F, POV Second Person, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-27
Updated: 2014-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-27 04:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2680001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winged_mammal/pseuds/winged_mammal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post The Devil You Know.  Root betrayed Shaw's trust to protect her.  Shaw is pissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can free the world, you can free my mind

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Massive Attack's "Safe From Harm," which was really just too applicable to this situation for me to resist.

The last time was the first time, and it was inevitable. 

It was Shaw watching over you as you destroyed the virus, both of you fully knowing she was more than capable of doing it herself. It was Shaw coming up behind you as you sat back with an air of finality and asking "so now we wait?" It was Shaw's muttered "finally" at your nod just before she hauled you up and pressed you against the wall and claimed your mouth with hers. It was bruises and bite marks and scratches left behind in passion and catharsis and you still felt the ghost of her touch days later even as you struck the needle into her neck and guided her to the floor.

This time will be the last time and it, too, is inevitable. 

It's Shaw looking up to glare daggers at you when you return to the subway two days after your betrayal, prepared to accept your fate now that the boys are on a mission and Shaw is alone. It’s Shaw stalking up to you and pinning you against the wall with an arm at your throat. It’s the look in Shaw’s eyes as the evident arousal already coursing through your veins at her nearness serves only to ratchet her anger. It’s an arm replaced by a hand pressing into your neck and teeth digging into the flesh of your throat and you can't breathe but your chest is full to bursting because she is there and she is _alive_.

It’s Shaw needing to taketake _take_ and you wanting to give her everything.

She curses your name and adjusts her grip on your throat enough for you to take a breath that is just as quickly expelled in a moan as her fingers slip under your jeans and find the wetness already gathered there. You can feel the muscles of her back move as your hands scramble to find purchase on her skin, and you’re fairly certain you draw blood when she thrusts inside you with little preamble and your nails dig into her flesh. Your head is swimming, slightly delirious from pleasure and lack of oxygen and overwhelming relief at her presence and when your head falls back her hand finally loosens its grip on your throat and pulls at your hair instead.

Your body quickly succumbs to her demands and you come with a hitch in your breath and force your eyes to stay open, watching her, unwilling to take even the chance that you will lose sight of her and your eyes will open to find her gone. She sees you staring and her lips pull back into a snarl and her fingers work inside you with even more determination. You're not getting off that easily, she tells you, and under any other circumstance you would tease her about the innuendo but right now her voice is nothing but an anchor, keeping you from drifting away with _what if too close can’t lose her_ and she draws another orgasm from you almost before you realize it’s happening.

There’s a rumble of a growl from her throat before she pulls you away from the wall, forcing your jacket down your arms and tossing it away and tearing at your shirt to expose your chest. You find yourself pushed toward the cot in the corner of the station and stripped of the remainder of your clothing by quick hands that force you onto your back on the rough blanket covering the mattress. Her teeth bite entirely too hard at a breast; you let out a whimper and claw at her back and her only response is a feral grin and fingers pressing inside you once more. The fingers curl and her thumb presses down too hard against sensitive flesh and your body tries to shy away but you need this too much to not let her take what she will. You wrap your legs around her as you come again, reveling in the life you feel in the heat beneath her clothes.

Your chest is rapidly becoming covered in marks and scratches under her ministrations. You marvel briefly at how the muscles in her arm are still managing to keep up her relentless thrusting inside you but then she bites down on your shoulder near the scar she gave you so long ago. So long ago, yet you’ve managed to take your relationship back to that state in one fell swoop and you know you’d do it again in a heartbeat. She bites your shoulder near your scar and you don’t know if the cry you let out is from the pain or the reminder of what you’ve done.

There's a hand at your throat again and even in the midst of her anger Shaw takes care to put most of her weight on her forearm along your chest. She squeezes harder than before though, your vision blackening slightly before she loosens her grip, her eyes watching yours intently and repeating the process. All the while she still works her fingers inside you, curling forward with every thrust. You feel your climax building in rhythm with the waves of your consciousness; your skin is on fire, caught up in the blaze of her rage and all you want is to burn burn burn in her wake.

"Sameen," you breathe, and you have never offered this benediction to someone other than the Machine, but you think She would understand.

Her eyes refocus at that; her fingers cease their movement inside you and the hand at your throat stills, frozen in a squeeze. You bring a hand up to soothe at her wrist, a smile playing about your lips as you feel your consciousness slip away. Then the pressure and the fingers are gone, and you feel a moment of panic as you take a breath and the grey fades from your vision. But you look up and she is still there, sitting back on her heels straddling your hips. The anger she has been holding on to, though, is nowhere to be found.

She is breathing heavily and staring at the marks on your chest; when you sit up and meet her eyes she pauses for a long moment, then leans forward and kisses you. It’s not tender and it’s not an apology - she’s not one for tenderness and there is nothing to apologize for. It’s bruising and it’s intense and for you, it’s _normal_.

You let your eyes linger closed when she pulls away.


End file.
